


Red Sun Rising

by PenguinofProse



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dancing, F/M, Guilt, Hugs, Red Sun Toxin, becho break up, that party scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:02:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26861086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenguinofProse/pseuds/PenguinofProse
Summary: Set in S6. Red sun toxin, guilt, and new beginnings.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 24
Kudos: 185





	Red Sun Rising

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to some S6 nostalgia! This starts when our faves wake up after the red sun. Huge thanks to Stormkpr for betaing it. Happy reading!

Clarke's here.

That's the first thing Bellamy notices when he wakes up to the sound of Abby's voice, his brain still fuzzy with memories of red sun toxin and knives and terror. But it's all going to be OK, because Clarke's here, by his side, where she belongs – or at least where she used to belong, before everything went wrong. And it's even better than that – her legs are tangled with his, and if he just lies here and relaxes and waits for his senses to come back to him more fully, he can almost imagine that they fell asleep cuddling and holding each other tight.

But the second thing he notices? Clarke's not moving.

Abby's crouching over her, murmuring increasingly urgent pleas for her to wake up. Jackson is striding towards them, concern on his face.

Clarke's not moving.

All at once, memories of the red sun madness rush in – a knife in his hand, but then in his leg. Hands around Clarke's throat. The hands were his own.

He wanted to kill Clarke. He wanted to kill her, and now she's not moving.

He scrambles into a sitting position, leans towards her motionless body.

"Clarke?" He hisses, panicked. "Please, Clarke. Please." He doesn't know what he's pleading for, exactly, only that he wants it desperately.

"She's alive." Abby tells him. "Pulse is weak but it's there. She's lost a lot of blood."

Yes. He can see that, even through his panic. There's a dark stain spreading across her shoulder, drenching her clothes in blood. He stabbed her, and now she's bleeding, and now she won't wake up. There are bruises around her throat, too – bruises that are a perfect match for his cursed hands.

"We should get her to medical." Jackson says, calm and collected.

Bellamy doesn't wait to be asked twice. He scoops her up in his arms, stands with difficulty. It hurts, because he seems to have a pretty substantial wound in his leg. But he can worry about that later – the pain of his injury is nothing compared to the pain of seeing Clarke like this, and knowing it's all his fault.

He starts limping determinedly in the direction Jackson has indicated.

"Stop, Bellamy. You're hurt too." Abby says.

He ignores her, keeps lurching forward.

"Bellamy. Let us take a look at that leg." Jackson speaks up.

"You can look at it when Clarke's OK." He tells them, because Clarke _not_ being OK isn't an option, here.

"Bellamy -"

"Clarke first." He insists, still limping onward.

They arrive at the medical centre soon, thank goodness. Bellamy sets Clarke down on the operating table Jackson indicates, then stands around wondering what to do. He'd quite like to stay here and hold her hand, but that's probably not an option. He guesses that's neither helpful nor allowed nor entirely appropriate.

He's starting to notice the pain in his leg, now that the immediate panic is ebbing away. He's starting to feel a bit woozy, too, and kind of weak and stupid.

"Take a seat outside." Jackson tells him. "Keep your leg elevated. We'll be with you as soon as we've seen to Clarke."

Yes. He can do that. He sits down to wait, puts his leg up on a nearby chair. And then he closes his eyes, just for a moment. Just because the walk over here carrying Clarke was a little tiring, it turns out.

…...

When he wakes up, he knows instinctively that many hours have passed. He's in a completely different location – some kind of medical bed in a small white room. His leg is aching, rather than hurting quite so much. And it seems to be covered in a lot of bandages.

Echo is here, too, sitting by his bedside.

"That wasn't your smartest move." She tells him, when she sees he is awake. He thinks she sounds more exasperated than annoyed, but sometimes it's difficult to tell with Echo. He still cannot read her clearly, even after three years together.

"I know. I can't believe I hurt her." He mutters, eyes averted. "So stupid of me. I know there was the toxin but that -"

"That wasn't what I meant. I meant trying to carry her here while your leg was bleeding everywhere so you passed out." Yes, he's pretty sure that's exasperation, now.

"I had to. I hurt her." He insists firmly. "Is she – did she make it?"

"She's OK. She's resting and Abby says she'll make a full recovery."

He sighs, relieved. At least she will recover, even if he's not sure their friendship ever can. How do you come back from hurting so seriously someone you care about?

"Sometimes I wonder whether you'd do the same for me." Echo muses thoughtfully. "Sometimes I wonder whether you'd walk through an army for me, or poison your sister for me, or carry me with a leg wound you could barely stand on. Sometimes I'm not even sure I'd make the list of the hundred members of the human race you think deserve to be saved."

"Echo -"

"Let me finish, Bellamy." Her voice has a real bite to it for the first time since he woke up. "It's not that I _want_ you to do those things any more than she does. It's just that she'll always be more important to you, won't she?"

"She's _Clarke_." Bellamy chokes out, her name floating in the air between them for the first time this whole conversation.

Echo nods. "Exactly. She's more important to you than this, than us. And I deserve better than that, Bellamy." Her voice rises a little. "It's taken me years to learn that, but I do. I deserve better than a relationship where I always put you first and you can never put me first."

He swallows, more uncomfortable than upset by this development. "Yeah. You do. I'm sorry. I hope you can find someone else who does that."

Another nod, firmer this time – almost a jerk of her head.

"For what it's worth, you'd definitely make my list." He tells her, because it's the honest truth. She's not Clarke, but she's Echo, and she means something to him in her own right.

"And you'd make mine." She frowns. "I guess this isn't how visiting someone's sickbed is supposed to go, is it?"

He allows himself a grudging laugh. "It's fine. It's for the best. Take care, Echo."

"Yeah. You too. Hope that leg feels better."

With that, she strides out of the door. And the sad thing is, that he doesn't even know her well enough to read whether she's actually completely unaffected by their breakup or is just holding back her emotions.

…...

Within minutes Bellamy is finding his current situation frustrating. He knows nothing about what's going on, alone in here with his leg in bandages. Echo left before he could think to ask her anything useful about his instructions for recovery, or how long he might stay here.

He managed to walk on his leg when he was carrying Clarke. That's what makes him think it's worth giving it a try now.

He sits up tentatively. That tugs on the wound a little, but he's had worse. He swings his legs slowly out of the bed, places his feet flat on the floor.

And then he stands up.

Standing up is fine. He can favour his good leg. Emboldened by that success, he has a go at walking.

Walking is... less fine. But it's doable. He can shuffle slowly forwards, teeth gritted. It'll be worth it if he can get out of this room and find some information about Clarke's condition.

To think he could have killed her. She might have _died_ , with all that bad blood between them. She might have died without them ever managing to talk about love.

He's half way to the door when Jackson walks in.

Jackson stands there, taken aback, for perhaps half a second.

And then he speaks, voice carefully controlled. "Get back into bed, Bellamy."

"I want to -"

"Get back into the bed. I'll answer all your questions, but get back into bed first." Jackson insists.

Bellamy admits defeat. He has to concede that walking isn't going so well for him, anyway. He shuffles back to his bed, sits down, rests his legs out in front of him.

"Better?" He asks Jackson, a little sulkily.

Jackson nods. "Great. You're going to be here a couple more hours, really just to get some rest. Then we'll release you as long as you promise to rest that leg and not tear your stitches. Clarke's doing well, before you ask. You can go see her when you get out of here."

"Can I go see her now?" He asks petulantly.

"No. You both need to rest." Jackson smiles a little. "I'll tell her you were asking after her. She's... feeling pretty low. I think she blames herself for your injury."

"That's crazy. I'm the one who hurt her." He bites out, angry.

Jackson sighs. "Yes. And she hurt you. And this is what you two do, isn't it? For the sake of both of you, Bellamy, please just hug and make up this time."

"What do you mean?"

Jackson hesitates, as if wondering whether his next words are wise. "I mean I'm sick of watching the pair of you pretend you don't love each other."

Then he's gone, sweeping from the room before Bellamy can formulate an answer.

…...

Bellamy spends a lot of time thinking on Jackson's words, while he endures his forced bed rest. It's not like he has anything else to do, in this bare room without so much as a book to entertain himself.

He suspects that Jackson was right in observing that he loves Clarke. He more or less admitted as much to Echo, implicitly, in breaking up with her. And he's still trying to decide whether he used to love her, or will love her one day, or loves her right now, but the sentiment is more or less correct.

Yet he simply cannot conceive of a world where Clarke loves him.

How could she, when he left her to burn? How could she, when she left him to die? How could she, when he just stabbed her in the shoulder and had her bleeding half to death?

But he can definitely follow Jackson's advice as far as hugging her goes, when they are reunited. Or at least, he'll try hugging her gently – he wouldn't want to disturb the stitches in her shoulder.

…...

Bellamy heads straight for Clarke's room the moment he is allowed out of his own. Jackson clearly expected that – the helpful guy even offers clear directions before Bellamy limps off down the hallways.

But then Bellamy finds himself outside Clarke's door, and that's a bit frightening, really. He's thought about getting here, and about hugging her, and about trying to put things right. But he hasn't thought about what he's actually going to _say_.

Suddenly nervous, he knocks softly at the door.

"Come in." Clarke's familiar voice calls. Thank goodness – she's awake.

He eases the door open, peers around it. She's sitting up in bed, arm in a sling, and the bruises around her throat look even more shocking under the harsh white lights of the med centre than they did when he first left them there.

He's a monster.

"Hey." He tries, voice a ragged croak.

"Come on in." She reiterates, beckoning him forward. "How are you doing? I'm so sorry about your leg. Are you -?"

"My leg's fine." He bites out, interrupting her. "I'm fine. I should be apologising to you. I'm so sorry, Clarke. You have to know that wasn't me. I would never want to hurt you."

"I know." She says simply, looking him right in the eyes, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

He frowns. She still feels that way, even after everything he's done to her? After everything they've done to each other?

"I'm so sorry." He chokes out again.

"It's OK. I know it was the toxin. You're forgiven." She tells him with the faintest hint of a smile. "I'm sorry for stabbing you, too. But I'm more sorry for everything that happened before the red sun. For leaving you in Polis."

"Clarke -"

"No, let me say this. I think – what happened has made me realise I need to say it. I'm sorry for leaving you in Polis. I was trying to protect my family but – _you're my family too_. I lost sight of that, and I'm sorry. But I promise I'll never forget it again." She swallows loudly, tears brimming in her eyes. "You're too important to me."

"You, too." He says, stiff and inadequate, but knowing that she will know exactly what he means. "I understand why you did it. I'm sorry about Madi. I just couldn't see another way, but I didn't mean to hurt you. I could never mean to hurt you." He tells her, voice raw. Somehow, it seems, he keeps finding himself repeating that – even though he keeps hurting her anyway.

There's a beat of silence. Bellamy is still loitering just inside the door, whether to make a quick getaway if this all gets overwhelming or because he doesn't feel worthy to be in Clarke's presence he's not quite sure. Maybe both.

And then Clarke reaches out her good arm into the space between them.

"Come here." She murmurs, soft.

He does. However many times he tells himself – and Clarke – that he doesn't take orders from her, he always seems to follow her instructions when push comes to shove. He walks over, kneels at the side of her bed, and lets her pull him in for a one-armed hug. He embraces her in turn, gently – almost reverently – and for a long time. He doesn't want to hurt her by squeezing her too hard, but he needs a Clarke hug right now like he needs air to breathe.

This is an odd hug by their usual standards, he thinks. Not because she's only got the one good arm and he's handling her as if she's breakable, but because she actually invited him over here for this purpose. These intense hugs of theirs are not something they usually talk about or plan or issue invitations for. Normally they just happen, on the spur of the moment, never discussed before or after.

Kind of like their relationship, really – there, solid, intense, but unspoken.

"I was so worried about you." He murmurs, somewhere near her neck. "I thought I'd _killed_ you."

"You haven't. I'm right here." She reminds him calmly.

"Thank God. That – it would have broken me." He admits.

She squeezes him a little tighter at that.

They hug for a long time – perhaps even a new record for them – but at last he pulls away. He has to, otherwise he'll kneel here all night and end up telling her that he loves her, or once loved her, or still wants to love her. Or some crazy tangle of all three.

"What happens now?" He asks, and he means to ask what happens to their friendship. Is he allowed to visit her sickbed for several hours a day? Can they go back to drinking moonshine together at the bar like they used to do in Arkadia? Can he invite her for a hug sometimes, as she just did for him?

Of course, because she is Clarke, her focus is on the fate of her people rather than the fate of her heart.

"We can stay here. We've been invited to make ourselves at home. I think there might be something going on – they asked a lot of questions about my blood. But we've got a roof over everyone's heads for now and we can figure the rest out in time."

He would be disappointed that she took his question the wrong way, but he can't. He's too busy worrying. Why are they so interested in her blood? Has she got some kind of target painted on her back now? Is this another society where nightbloods fight to the death?

Once upon a time, a younger Bellamy would have done anything to protect the younger Clarke. It seems like maybe that's what happens now – maybe it's time to learn to be that man once again.

…...

If Clarke finds it weird how much he hangs around her in the days that follow, she doesn't say anything. Sometimes he has a good reason to be there, like when he insists on taking part in the meetings with the man called Russell who is in charge around here. Bellamy can easily lay a claim to being one of the leaders of the combined ranks of Wonkru, Eligius and his family from space, so Clarke doesn't seem at all suspicious that he wants to take part in negotiations.

Sometimes he has to make reasons to spend time with her. He invites her for a drink most evenings, and that's good. It's _nice_. It reminds him of Arkadia and necking moonshine whilst waiting for the world to burn.

It reminds him of the spring they spent falling in love the first time round.

No, he can't think like that. He needs to protect her for now, until they've figured out what these people want. He can have a go at uncomplicating the complicated relationship that lies between them once their lives are less dangerous.

Yeah, right. Based on past experience, that moment is never going to come.

Sometimes Bellamy has no good excuse for trailing after Clarke, and he just does it anyway. He invites himself to have breakfast with her and Madi, even though no one asked him. Clarke is too polite to tell him to get lost, and Madi likes asking him questions about the hundred, so it all works out well enough.

And the night of the naming day party? He has absolutely no acceptable explanation for the way he follows her around then.

"I didn't realise you were stopping by. Didn't you want to go to the party with Echo?" Clarke asks, frowning, as he knocks at the door of her quarters and asks if she's ready to go. "It's great that we've had time to catch up these last few days but you should go hang out with her."

He tries for a hard, unconcerned expression. He probably doesn't succeed. "Echo's not in the picture any more."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Do you want to talk about it?" She offers softly.

He nearly bursts out laughing. She cannot be so oblivious to his feelings – surely she realises that she is the reason Echo broke up with him? And then there's the totally mundane nature of her offer. The two of them have hurt and nearly killed each other all those times, and here she is trying to support him through a breakup. It would be ridiculous, if it wasn't so sad.

"I just want a hug." He admits honestly. It's true, he does just want a hug – but more because he always wants a Clarke hug, than because of his recent breakup.

She doesn't wait for him to ask twice. She steps forwards, wraps her good arm around his neck. She's not wearing the sling any more, but her injured shoulder is still less mobile so that hand comes to rest on his waist. He buries his nose in her neck, because that's one of his favourite things about hugging Clarke. The smell of her, the intimacy of nuzzling against her soft skin. When he's holding her like this, he can almost pretend that they have crossed the line into romantic territory.

"Let's go enjoy this party." Clarke suggests brightly, as she pulls away.

"Yeah." He says, flat. Parties are not his favourite thing – he's just going to keep an eye on Clarke.

She picks up on his mood right away, because of course she does. She always seems to manage that when it's least convenient. "Thinking about your sister?" She asks softly.

"Trying not to." He shakes his head. "You're right. Come on. There's no way anyone I love gets floated at this party, right?"

That's why he's here, after all. He's here to make sure nothing happens to the people – _person_ – he cares about the most.

Clarke leads the way from her quarters to the party. Bellamy tries not to admire her appearance too openly as they walk. It's a struggle – he finds her beautiful with bruised cheeks and torn clothes, so the sight of her all cleaned up in this stunning blue dress is not great for his health. But he can't be thinking of her like that. He has no right to think of her like that. They're friends – or former friends who are trying to learn how to fix their friendship once again – and ogling her cleavage is inappropriate.

And way too alluring.

No. He mustn't.

"How's Madi?" He asks as they walk.

Clarke hesitates a fraction of a second before answering. "Not sure. She's happy to be safe and to be able to meet all your guys she's heard so much about. But she really wants to go to school, and I'm not happy with that until we know more about the fascination with nightblood round here."

"That must be tough."

"She's not very happy with me. I know that's part of being her age but – yeah. It sucks."

"She'll come around. She loves you." He says simply.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure it'll be OK." Clarke pastes on that smile she wears when she's trying to pretend she's not breaking inside. Bellamy really wishes she wouldn't, wishes she would be honest with him. But he realises he's done precious little to earn her honesty of late.

"Let me know if ever you want to talk about it." He offers.

"Thanks." Clarke takes a shaky breath. "She's with Gaia for the evening. I guess it might do us good to have a little space from each other. And I know I need to be seen to go to this party to keep some goodwill in this deal."

"Maybe you can try to have fun and take your mind off it?" He suggests, hoping that doesn't sound completely inane. He doesn't mean to belittle her conflict with her daughter, but he does think that her sitting around stewing about it isn't healthy.

"Are you saying I look like I could use a drink?" Clarke asks, wearing the slightest smile as she peers up at him.

"I'm saying you look like you could use more than one."

They arrive at the party, then. It's everything Bellamy hates about parties – loud music and coloured lights and flashbacks to the night his life unravelled. And he's got new memories of terrible parties since then, too. He's got Jasper's party for the end of the world, and the way he screwed Bree and then left her to die.

He really is a monster.

Clarke pulls him out of his negative thoughts, as she so often does. She steers him towards the bar, procures drinks for the two of them. She necks her first shot in one, and he cannot help but chuckle at that.

Maybe they can do this. The optimistic voice in his mind is tiny, but it's there. Maybe they really can rebuild this relationship and reclaim some of that lightheartedness they used to share.

Of course, no sooner has he found some hope than it is dashed.

"Do you want to dance?" Clarke asks him brightly. "I get that your leg is still healing. But I was thinking we can just kind of stand in a corner and shuffle?"

"I don't dance." He bites out.

He doesn't dance. He doesn't get to have fun with a beautiful woman who means the world to him. And he doesn't make peace or earn forgiveness or right his wrongs.

In short, he doesn't do better.

Clarke's face falls, but she says nothing. She downs her second drink, calls for another. Bellamy starts drinking too quickly, too – out of shame, and want of anything better to do. If he doesn't dance and Clarke seems to have stopped speaking to him, what else is there to do?

No, he can't get too drunk. He needs to protect her. Even if he's disappointed her, he still needs to ensure she stays safe.

It isn't long before he notices that Clarke's gaze is starting to wander. She's looking out at the crowd, eyes narrowed as if checking out the occasional dancer. He doesn't blame her – he's being no fun, and he's no good for her. He only ever hurts her. She should look elsewhere.

But he really doesn't want her to.

It hits him by surprise, that sudden conviction that he doesn't want her looking elsewhere. That he's done with this life where they hurt each other and need each other and keep that infuriating distance between them. Sure, he still has this intrinsic belief that he's not good enough for her. But in this moment he knows he'll never forgive himself if he doesn't at least try. He knows he'll never forgive himself if he lets her take to the dance floor with someone else and doesn't at least try to fight for her.

There's a guy approaching Clarke at this very moment – that handsome doctor from the med centre – so Bellamy knows he has to act quickly.

"Do you want to dance?" He asks, abrupt, much too loud.

Clarke jerks her head towards him in confusion. "I thought you don't dance?"

"I could make an exception for you." He says, trying for the kind of light tone that used to characterise their teasing back at the dropship and not entirely succeeding.

She smiles hesitantly. "We don't have to if you don't want to."

He doesn't want to, not quite. But he does _want_ to want to, in an odd kind of way. He wants this because Clarke wants it, and he wants her to get what she wants more often. It's happened all too rarely, in the last thirteen decades.

"Come on." He stands up, keeping his weight off his injured leg, and reaches a hand out to her. "I'm not much good at dancing but let's give it a go."

He's never seen Clarke look so happy as she does at those words, and that's possibly the saddest thing of all. She should have more joy in her life, he thinks, than an old friend reluctantly inviting her to struggle through a dance with him.

He notes that she sticks to her plan of having them hide away in a corner where he won't have to feel self-conscious about trying to dance with his leg, and in some ways he's glad of that. But he's a little disappointed, too. He doesn't want her to feel like he's ruining her fun, like she has to hold herself back and hide in corners for him. He wants her to have everything good in the world, if he's being truly honest, but he figures that he can at least start by giving her free rein of the dance floor.

So it is that, once they have swayed awkwardly in their corner for a couple of minutes, he grows braver. He takes her hand, and leads her into the thick of the crowd. And then, for the first time in his life, he dances with Clarke in full view of their friends.

Yeah, only a hundred and thirty two years overdue.

The thing about not having danced very much in his life is that he doesn't really know how to do it. He waves his limbs about in time to the music, tries to copy some of the moves he sees around him. Thankfully Clarke doesn't seem to care, lost in the rhythm as she lets loose. The longer they dance, the closer she seems to get. He's not complaining at all, obviously. He just think it's interesting how she keeps pressing up against him, how she catches at his hands or even brushes his neck.

It's a bit like sex, really – only fully clothed. But there's a lot of touching and closeness and whenever they want to speak they have to press their lips right against each other's ears to be heard over the music.

Needless to say, he is keen to keep dancing for a long time now he's discovered how great it can be. He'd happily stay here all night. It's fun, and he relishes this opportunity to be so close to Clarke without it being inappropriate. But most of all he loves the way they get to simply spend time together, existing, without any pressure to find the right words to say or any fear that one false step might revive the ghosts that haunt them and ruin their relationship forever.

"Having fun?" Clarke asks him, at one point, leaning so close her lips brush his ear.

"Yeah." He swallows. This isn't the place for a whole conversation, but he wants to say more than that. "Should have done this years ago."

She nods, grinning brightly. And then she spins on the spot, backs into him, starts dancing close against his front.

He forgets how to breathe. He forgets how to do anything except move against her in turn, hips swaying, heart pounding, mouth hanging open in shock. He takes a risk, settles a hand on her waist. She seems to like that, swaying even closer to him.

He wonders if this is real, or just a particularly vivid dream.

He's disappointed when the music slows down. He's aware of the social conventions here – slow dances are for couples, or people who'd like to be couples. And of course he'd love nothing more than to take that step with Clarke but it doesn't seem fair to even ask it, after all his mistakes. They should work on their friendship for a bit longer before he can so much as consider making a move.

He sighs, and prepares to vacate the dance floor.

But then somehow Clarke's good arm is around his neck and her injured one is at his waist and she's swaying gently on the spot. It's just the same as the hug they started the evening with, in many ways – only the context makes it so very different.

Well, then. He definitely can't leave now.

He wraps his arms around her in turn, holds her so tight he thinks she can probably feel his heart beating. He's barely moving, now, any thought of dancing long since forgotten. He's just holding Clarke and waiting for this moment to end. Because in his experience, sweet moments with Clarke always do end.

Sure enough, the music fades out. The lights come up, the couples around them start to move. And still Clarke does not pull away. Rather she stands there, still holding him, as if there's no place she'd rather be.

Maybe all hope is not lost.

He pulls away, presses an unthinking kiss to her forehead as he goes. Her eyes flicker up to his face slightly at the action, but she doesn't comment on it.

Good. They're on the same tentatively optimistic page then.

"Can I walk you home?" He asks her softly. He was going to follow her home anyway, to make sure she arrives safely. But after what they've just shared he wants to package it in those slightly more meaningful words.

She nods, takes his hand and leads him from the dance floor. And then they are clear of the throng of party-goers, with no chance of being separated by the crowds, and still she is holding his hand.

He squeezes her fingers softly and prepares for the hardest conversation of his distinctly difficult life.

"I spent six years thinking we'd missed our chance forever." He whispers as they walk through the darkness. "I was even more convinced of it when everything went wrong in Polis, even though you were still alive. But tonight makes me think that – that maybe there's still hope." He shapes the statement into a half-question, turns to take in her expression as they keep walking.

She's smiling softly. "We're still breathing, aren't we?"

That's it. That's all the confirmation he needed. He sighs in relief, allows himself to start running his thumb gently over her knuckles.

"Can we try again?" He asks, half way to begging. "Take it slow? Try to stop hurting each other and help each other heal instead? Dance at parties and hug when we want to and see where it goes?"

"I know where it goes." Clarke tells him, utterly certain.

He laughs, the tension of this conversation giving way in a burst of happiness. "Yeah. I think I do, too. What do you say, Clarke?"

She pulls him to a stop, presses a soft kiss to his jaw. It's a bit like the kiss she gave him at the gates of Camp Jaha, in some ways. And yet it's not – because he has a beard now, because she has a daughter now. Because it's a kiss of new beginnings rather than heartbreaking endings.

"I say let's remember how to love each other." She says, forceful and firm, completely confident. As if the words come as easily to her as dancing. "Maybe along the way we'll remember how to love ourselves."

He'd like that. He thinks it'll be a challenge, but one that's worth persevering with. It'll be slow work, but he has hope that they'll get there sooner or later.

He has hope, because Clarke's here.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
